Page 29 of Gilt

“Then I guess I’ll call you Emma, or would you prefer Ms. Southerly?” he asks, a chill runs so deeply in his words that I feel it in my own blood. Last night I thought he might devour me. Tonight it feels like he’d settle for a mere mauling.

“I’d prefer you didn’t call me anything.” I move past him, but his hand flies out and catches my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. I tug against his hold, but he only tightens his grip. “Let go of me.”

“We need to talk first.”

“We needed to talk this morning,” I tell him. “But I’m a little tired after spending most of the day covering for your ass with the homicide division.”

“I appreciate that.” But there’s no gratitude on his face. He’s reciting the obligatory thanks.

“I think getting someone off a murder rap deserves flowers or maybe chocolate,” I bite back.

Jameson steps closer, still keeping my wrist pinned. “Did you think you got me off, Duchess?”

“You’re using that word again,” I warn him.

He ignores me. “Believe me, this is far from over.”

“It is for us,” I tell him.

His eyes flash, lightning in the stormy gray. I’ve upset him, which is a pretty stupid thing considering that he may or may not have killed someone in the last twenty-four hours. But as angry as I am at him, I can’t find it in myself to be scared of him. Reason, logic, and common sense have all deserted me for the time being. Jameson drops his hold on me.

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” he asks.

“Oh, okay, Jameson West. Did you enjoy the part where I talked crap on your sister? Or when I basically said horrible things about your whole family? Let’s not pretend we were honest with each other. “

“Agreed,” he says to my surprise. “I’d suggest we start over. Jameson West.”

He holds out his hand, but I don’t take it.

“Emma Southerly,” I say coldly. “We don’t shake hands with Wests.”

“That was our fathers’ fight. It died with them.”

“My dad is still alive,” I tell him.

“Then he wins. I have no interest in continuing their petty feud.”

“That’s an incredibly enlightened sentiment, but not really one I share.”

“So what do you have against the Wests, Miss Southerly?”

I hate how formal he sounds when he calls me that, but I can’t exactly ask him to call me Duchess. Talk about sending the wrong signal. “My beef with your family goes back a few years.”

“Ah, yes. My troublemaker of a sister stole your boyfriend,” he recalls.

“You were paying attention.”

“I liked paying attention to you.”

“Really?” I ask, “because I don’t recall you leaving a note. Not very attentive, Mr. West.”

“Check your phone,” he orders.

It’s at that moment that I realize it’s sitting on the kitchen counter. I’ve run all the way here without it. Now I’m talking to a murder suspect without a way to call for help. I might not be afraid of him, but I can’t believe I was so stupid as to leave it behind. “I don’t have it.”

“You came all this way without your phone.” Annoyance colors his disbelief.

“There was a time when people walked miles without cell phones,” I remind him. Where does he get off treating me this way?